


Praise No More

by KestrelGirl



Category: Guild Wars 2 (Video Game)
Genre: Awakened (Guild Wars), Body Horror, Character Death, Character Undeath, Gen, Illustrations, Mild Gore, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Non-Graphic Violence, Partial Mind Control, Short, no but like seriously how do Awakened talk, obligatory Praise Joko
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-11
Updated: 2019-12-11
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:35:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21755371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KestrelGirl/pseuds/KestrelGirl
Summary: Inkeri rose up so far from her criminal past, only to fall in battle and be Awakened - just before Palawa Joko's permanent death. With only traces left of who she was, she struggles to pick up the pieces in the aftermath.
Kudos: 3





	Praise No More

Where am I?

 _Who_ am I?

How did I get here?

I’m in… a building? I don’t know. It’s dark. I’m surrounded by creaks, groans, …screams? 

I try to remember who I was, what to think or say or do. But every thought swirling in my mind is crushed by the weight of a name: _Joko._

It takes me a full minute to realize that I’m not breathing. I gasp for air, but all I feel is a horrible swelling, like I could burst. I unbutton my coat. It’s torn nearly to pieces, sleeves hanging by mere threads.

I look down at myself. My hands are shriveled to little more than rot and bone. My skin, already dark, has turned a deep shade of grey. It hangs over my ribcage, then dips too far backward, nearly to my spine. A neat, gray-red, sticky scar traces along the loose, fragile flesh, from sternum to pelvis. My mind forces itself to a single, echoing thought. _Joko provides._

I put my leathery palm on my chest. My heart still beats, but far too slowly. I feel dry, sluggish, drained. I use one desiccated fingernail to pick at the decaying skin on my forearm. It rips, and the wound weeps with not blood, but tar. I am empty. My mind is empty. Nothing is where it should be. _Joko provides. You will serve._

“Recruits, to arms!” Someone barks an order behind me. I see others with me in the room, now. We are all pulled to our feet by the weight of Joko’s control, and march mindlessly to the arsenal. My hands - are they mine anymore? - are pulled to a rifle and a set of daggers, made of bone and held together by string and tar. We shamble to the gate, and a Mordant Crescent commander - my commander - swings it open. Our king compels us to call out in a single, lungless rallying cry as we leave: _Praise Joko._ My voice is deeper, warped, _unfamiliar._ But without lungs, how are we - _Joko gives. Joko takes._

The sunlight is blinding; stupefying, even. It floods my vision. Sudden flashes of memory press against the haze in my mind. There is water down there. I died there. I see the poisoned arrow that pierced my heart. I hear shouts, past and present blurring together. Yet one -

“Is that… Inkeri? Spirits, no… they Awakened her!”

That’s… that’s me. It’s all coming back. I am in Kourna. This must be Gandara. Joko’s fortress. _Praise be._ I try to cower out of sight, but the lich king’s crushing grip stems the tide and tugs me back into position. _Serve your king._ My hands grip my rifle. I load, lock… fire. Again, and again.

I lose count of the shots, watching as their magic becomes tainted by shadow and death. How many days have I been here? How many Pact have I killed? How many times has a distorted _Praise Joko_ escaped my empty chest? 

I climb down on a hidden tar bank, away from the fray, and look into the oily water. If I were still alive, the sight of my rotting, boil-ridden face and blank white stare would shake me to the core. Instead, I am numb.

There is only fight left in me, and even that is dull and dismal amid the fog in my brain. I fall into the rhythm of the kill. 

Until the day it snaps.

I feel it. We all feel it, every single Awakened who’s been fighting with me around Gandara. We all… _feel._ Joko is gone.

It takes days for me to regain the courage to face my former allies. The rest of my memories flood back, in bloated gasps, choked cries, and tears of tar. My childhood, my parents, the time I spent as a pirate after rejecting what Snow Leopard wanted me to be. Leaving, trying to redeem myself, and being rewarded for all that with an arrow in my chest.

They don’t know what it’s like to be used as a lich’s pawn, but they seem to understand why I did what I did. They tell me there is a group of others like me, who could use my aim.

I can speak, somehow, but I am still missing so many pieces of me. So many words lost. 

But maybe, just maybe, we can help each other get ourselves back.


End file.
